Rexanne Becnel (19 page)

It was time, however, to lure her to him. He lolled back in his chair, steepling his fingers beneath his chin. “So. Would you girls like a riding lesson tomorrow?”

That perked them right up, like morning glories belling open at the first light of dawn. Their teacups rattled down upon their saucers, causing Catherine’s brow to pucker. “Why wait till tomorrow? I want to go now,” Izzy said, jumping to her feet.

Helen, too, leaped up in excitement. “Oh, yes. I so very much would like to learn how to ride.” She hesitated. Then averting her eyes, she smiled and shyly added, “Father.”

Father. One simple word. Yet its impact was monumental. James distinctly felt something in his chest turn over and melt. This was the first time one of his children had called him father. The very first time.

Standing in the doorway, poised to join the perfectly arranged tableau, Phoebe also heard the appellation. She hesitated, observing the play of emotions on James’s face.

She knew she should think of him as Lord Farley, not as James. But it was hard to do that when she understood so intensely the feelings in his heart. He was utterly smitten with his girls, so mad for them that it was impossible for her to maintain a grudge against him.

“’Scuse me, miss.” The maid named Peg sidled past her with a fresh pot of hot water.

At once a faint stain of color rose in Phoebe’s face. She watched as Peg swiftly exchanged the fresh pot for the tepid one, then withdrew on silent feet. She was a respectable-looking girl, neat in appearance and demure in manner. Phoebe would never have guessed her to be a wanton.

But then she, too, was neat in appearance and reasonably demure in manner. Did anyone suspect what she did when no one else was about? Peg hadn’t guessed, nor had the footman—at least Phoebe hadn’t intercepted any knowing looks or leers.

Then from across the room Mr. Fairchild looked up, his eyes bright and observant, and Phoebe’s confidence plummeted.

He knew. She could swear it.

But he couldn’t possibly know what was going on between her and James, and she had no reason to think he did. Surely James wouldn’t have told him. Her certainty would not go away.

It didn’t console her much that if he did know, he probably didn’t think it so terrible. If anything it proved what she already believed. Wenching was a point of pride for most men, and sleeping with the help was common for men of wealth and social standing.

Beset now by doubt, she decided it better not to interrupt this little domestic scene. She should just trust Izzy and Helen to behave as she’d instructed, and slip back to the nursery or the schoolroom, or better yet, a solitary stroll through the garden.

When Mr. Fairchild smiled and waved her over, however, signaling her presence to the others, it was too late to escape.

“Phoebe, Phoebe,” the girls chorused. “We’re going riding.” They ran up to her and each of them caught her by a hand. Then they dragged her into the parlor while everyone watched. The men stood. Mrs. Donahue gave her a taut smile, while Lady Catherine indicated a seat next to her.

Phoebe sat, overwhelmed by how perverse the situation was. The future wife and the mistress sat side by side where the object of their contention might contrast them at his leisure. She had no doubt who would suffer in the comparison.

Even without her beauty, her grace, and her status in society, Lady Catherine would fit right into Lord Farley’s parlor. The room suited her, right down to its colors, Phoebe realized as she stared at the younger woman’s skirts spread so artfully upon the settee. Her outfit matched the room’s decor. Butter-yellow moiré skirts upon a cream and willow-green striped settee. Tasteful emerald earbobs and two bracelets complemented the collection of Staffordshire figurines and a large painting of Lord Farley’s mother on the wall. And of course, Lady Catherine’s fair hair and ivory complexion practically glowed in the sunny, cream-colored parlor.

Phoebe stared down at her unadorned wrists, and surreptitiously banished a dark spot beneath her left thumbnail. Did the woman mean to wear midnight blue in the darkly elegant dining room? Would her peignoir be the same color as the master’s bed linens—

Stop it!

Phoebe knotted her hands to prevent them trembling. She didn’t know the color of James’s bedchamber walls and likely never would.

But his fiancée soon would.

“Tea?” Lady Catherine asked.

She tried to compose herself. “Thank you.”

“Will you come riding with us too?” Helen asked.

“Riding.” Phoebe was too overcome by the disparate forces rocketing about the deceptively peaceful gathering to think straight. She lusted after one of their company, envied another, feared a third, and in the midst of all that, had to be strong for the girls. It was all she could do to lift the fragile teacup to her lips and sip the unsweetened beverage. Riding was out of the question.

“Don’t you know how to ride?” Izzy asked.

Phoebe set her cup on its saucer. “I’m afraid my experience is limited to bareback rides on a slow-moving draft animal.”

“How unfortunate for you,” Lady Catherine said. “I find nothing quite so invigorating as a ride on a fine-blooded creature. Don’t you agree, my lord?”

“Indeed,” James answered. But when Phoebe’s gaze reluctantly met his, the glitter there bespoke another sort of ride entirely. Or perhaps it was only her wicked imagination at work. In desperation she refocused on her now unpalatable tea. She could not lead this duplicitous life. She simply could not.

As if coming to her rescue, Mr. Fairchild put down his cup. “I say, Farley, why wait till tomorrow? You ought to take the girls out to the stables now while there’s still some daylight left.”

“Oh, may we?” Helen pleaded.

Even Izzy, despite her misgivings toward her father and her blatant desire for him to pair up with Phoebe, didn’t want to miss an opportunity to ride. “Yes. Tea is over, isn’t it?”

“But they aren’t dressed for riding,” Lady Catherine pointed out. “If there is a decent dressmaker in your village we could order riding habits made for them.”

“Phoebe sews all my clothes,” Helen said. She smiled at her aunt. “Don’t you?”

“Do tell,” Lady Catherine said, smile still in place. “How fortunate for James to have such a clever person in his employ. Governess. Housekeeper. And now seamstress. Your mother must be very proud of you, Miss Churchill.”

So there were claws beneath that sweet, kittenish façade. Phoebe gave Lady Catherine a strained smile but did not otherwise respond.

For his part James stood, as if belatedly realizing that his fiancée and mistress ought not be confined too long together. “It’s too late to ride, but it’s not too late for a lesson in saddles and bridles and the importance of attending to one’s animal’s needs.”

The girls ran to the door, but halted when Phoebe bade them wait. “Make your farewells as you’ve been taught.”

They curtsied and thanked Lady Catherine for tea, then said good-bye to the others, turned, and walked hand in hand to the door. Once through it, though, they dashed as of one mind for the back door. Following them, James paused in the doorway. “Are you coming?”

To whom his query was directed was not entirely clear, at least not to Phoebe. But Lady Catherine understood it directed to her, and with a graciousness of movement that Phoebe was beginning to despise, rose and said, “That sounds lovely. Come along, Mrs. Donahue. You must join us.” Then she turned to Phoebe. “Shall you accompany us as well, Miss Churchill?”

“No,” Phoebe said. Then she added, “Thank you,” in a voice strung as tautly as her nerves.

“Well. We shall miss you,” Lady Catherine said with the utmost sweetness. But this time Phoebe caught a flash in the woman’s pretty blue eyes. A hint of possessiveness? An inkling of triumph?

The moment ended when Lady Catherine turned to Mr. Fairchild. “Aren’t you coming, Kerry?”

Mr. Fairchild stood and gave her a foreshortened bow. “No. I believe I’ll stay here instead and keep Miss Churchill company.”

Lady Catherine gave them a smile and a nod, then took James’s arm, and the two of them, trailed by Mrs. Donahue, went after the children.

In the emptiness of the abandoned parlor, Mr. Fairchild raised a phantom toast to them. “What a handsome couple they make. Don’t you agree?”

“Yes.”
Handsome enough to give a jealous lover a pounding headache.

“I have to wonder, though, whether or not they are truly suited to one another.”

Phoebe swiveled her head around, unable to disguise her surprise. “Are you saying you don’t think they are?”

“I’m not certain.” His clever eyes narrowed when he grinned. “What do you think?”

Phoebe composed her face, and tried as well to compose her emotions. “I’m sure I’m not the appropriate person to venture an opinion on that subject.” When he continued to stare expectantly at her, however, she grew flustered. “He is a lord; she is a lady. And as you say, they look exceedingly well together. What else is required?”

But Phoebe feared that Mr. Fairchild had an ulterior motive for this particular subject. She’d ascertained already that his idle manner hid a quick mind and sharp eyes. He suspected something. Once more she wondered if James had revealed the truth to him.

Abruptly she rose and strode for the door. “I’ve work to tend to,” she muttered. “If you’ll excuse me?”

“Work. My dear Miss Churchill, all you do is work. Surely you have time to sit and enjoy your—”

Phoebe left before he could finish. She could make time for tea, but not with someone who wanted to probe her thoughts and feelings as thoroughly as he wanted to.

And not while the children she loved were having a wonderful time with the man she loved—and with the woman
he
loved.

James sat in a tall wing chair, listening to Lady Catherine play Chopin at the pianoforte, but thinking about Phoebe Churchill. On a rug before the fire Izzy and Helen teased their kittens with a length of ribbon, while Bruno napped. Kerry sat at a card table, hunched over a two-week-old copy of the
Times
.

“Damn,” he swore under his breath. He glanced at James. “The
Skylark
—you know, that freighter I invested in. She’s still not listed as having arrived in port. God forbid she’s been lost at sea. Did you put any money in her?”

“No.” James pushed to his feet, drawing a look from Lady Catherine. When she ended the piano composition, he said, “I’m going up to the nursery to bid Leya goodnight.”

Izzy jumped up. “We’ll come too.”

“No.” He stopped, then with a gesture he repeated in a calmer tone, “No. You girls must play the role of hostesses to our guests. I won’t be long.”

Helen started to protest. Though her shyness had eased around him, being left alone with their visitors was not something she was comfortable with. But Izzy’s hand on Helen’s shoulder and a reassuring smile silenced the younger girl. Phoebe had worked wonders with Izzy, James thought as he strode away. She’d turned his wildcat of a daughter into an ally, and into a little mother to the other girls.

In truth, everything Miss Phoebe Churchill did was a wonder to him. Everything she touched, she managed to charm. His children. His household staff. Himself.

He exhaled, a sharp whistle of breath through his teeth, as remembered passion spiraled through him. Up the broad sweep of stairs he went, taking three at a time. He was heading for the nursery and he did want to check on the rapidly recovering Leya. But he wanted to see Phoebe too. He needed to see her.

Tea had been a disappointment and the visit to the stables only a brief distraction. At dinner she’d sat far down from him, accepting their compliments on the staff’s prompt service with good grace. But she’d contributed very little to the conversation. When they’d repaired to the parlor, she’d excused herself—something about tomorrow’s menu. Ever since, he’d found himself anxiously awaiting her return. Eventually she would have to come for Izzy and Helen.

But he wanted to speak to her in private before then, to steal a kiss and make arrangements for later.

He came upon her just departing the nursery. She looked up startled, and in the wavering amber light of the candle branch she carried, she appeared soft, innocent, and completely beguiling.

“Is Leya asleep?”
Come to me tonight.

“Yes.”

Yes, you’ll come to my bed?
Blood pooled seething and urgent in his loins.

“Yes, she’s asleep. The blisters are beginning to dry.” She sidled past him and started down the hall. “I haven’t noticed any new blisters either. It seems the end of her illness may be in sight.”

“Phoebe.”

She slowed, then stopped, and after a long moment, turned to face him. “Yes?”

Her eyes were large and luminous, deceptively open. Yet he couldn’t determine what she was thinking. Suddenly he felt as gauche as a lad of fifteen, finagling desperately to steal a kiss from a girl he’d long admired.

“I’d like to see you.” His voice was thick and low. “Tonight.”

She stood very still. Only the flickering of the candle flames and the dancing shadows gave any illusion of movement to her face. “Where?”

Here. Now. Anywhere. Anytime.
“My study? We can be private there.” He knew it was the wrong answer even before she blinked and looked away.

“Perhaps tomorrow would be better.” Then she turned and fled, and he could only stare after her. It was Catherine, of course. Catherine’s unexpected presence had Phoebe in a quandary and he couldn’t blame her. He felt much in a quandary himself. He and Catherine hadn’t yet spoken of their betrothal—about her willingness to renew it and his willingness to agree. But the signs were all there and he’d be a fool not to take advantage of his good fortune. Everything he wanted was within his grasp. He had only to reach out and take it. But at the moment all he wanted was Phoebe.

He was an idiot, thinking with his cock instead of his brain. But he couldn’t manage to stop. No woman had ever interfered with his political aspirations before. But Phoebe was. She was wreaking havoc with them.

If only Catherine’s change of heart had come at a more convenient moment. If only he’d had more time with Phoebe to cement their budding relationship. A week. A few days, even.

He raked a hand through his hair, then stared blankly around the room. He was an idiot risking his whole future because he couldn’t get one woman out of his system. How in God’s name had he dug himself into such a deep hole?

Phoebe also felt like an idiot, a maudlin idiot who must still believe in fairy tales. There was no other accounting for the emotional storm that beset her. Why not go to him? she wondered as she secured the safety of her bedroom. The dubious safety. She wanted to be with him. He wanted her to be. What had she expected, for him to invite her into the master’s chambers? Why should he when she’d already proven herself willing in the nursery and in the housekeeping office? Men did not invite their mistresses into their private chambers in their ancestral homes. That was an honor reserved solely for a wife.

She leaned back against the door and let out a hysterical laugh. She wasn’t sure where she’d acquired that bit of immoral etiquette, but somehow it seemed right. The master’s chambers were for the wife to visit, for creating the lord’s heir and all his subsequent children. A decent man wouldn’t invite his mistress to the same bed his wife visited.

“God help me,” she groaned. A decent man wouldn’t maintain a mistress in the first place. And a decent woman wouldn’t
be
that mistress. Had she made a terrible mistake coming to work here? Was it too late to change her mind?

She buried her face in her hands, but though she stood a long time with her head bowed and shoulders slumped, she wouldn’t let herself cry. She couldn’t. She was the girls’ governess and so must go down to fetch them up to their beds. She would supervise their ablutions, and when she tucked them beneath the counterpane, she would tell them that on Sunday they must promise to be on their best behavior. For she’d been invited for dinner at Mrs. Leake’s table, and she meant to go.

James was definitely avoiding being alone with Catherine.

For two days Kerry watched his friend dodge the bewildered woman, despite her increasingly unsubtle hints. No matter the occasion—a horseback ride, a stroll around the park, an afternoon in the library—James maneuvered like a chess master, making certain Kerry or one of his girls was always beside him.

Not that Kerry minded. It had been hard enough to watch his best friend win the affection of the woman
he
had come to love. When Catherine had broken off the betrothal, Kerry had been so happy he’d even allowed himself the foolish luxury of imagining her turning to
him,
falling in love with
him,
and convincing her rigid, unfeeling father to accept
him
as a son-in-law.

Pitiful hopes, and they’d been pitifully dashed when she’d begged him to precede her to Yorkshire. But he’d done it. He’d do anything for Catherine. The last thing he’d expected was James’s lack of enthusiasm for resuming the betrothal. Despite Catherine’s obvious misery, his hopes were once again raised.

It hadn’t taken long to notice James’s avoidance of Catherine. The question remained, was it deliberate, or unconscious? Even more curious, why did the man never use Miss Churchill as the buffer between himself and his would-be fiancée?

In the same manner Miss Churchill managed to avoid ever being alone with James. Very interesting.

But Kerry had grown bored with all this tiptoeing about. He wanted to see sparks fly; he was ready for fireworks. If James couldn’t be honest with Catherine, maybe it was time for Kerry to force the issue. Or perhaps Miss Phoebe Churchill should. Something was going on between the demure governess and his randy friend, and he needn’t be a genius to figure out what.

But what if Catherine didn’t care? What if she wanted James no matter the circumstances? After all, she was here despite his three natural-born children.

Muffling an oath, he put that thought out of his mind, and instead lifted his tumbler of whisky to the window and studied the light that poured through the gold-tinted liquid. Not for the first time he bemoaned the fact that he was a younger son—not that he wanted all the responsibilities that went along with becoming the Earl of Sanderly. But a younger son was considered second choice as a husband, at least among the first-choice ladies. And by every standard that counted, Catherine Winfield was first choice, as her father well knew.

Beyond the window a figure moved across his line of vision. Miss Churchill strolling with Leya on the child’s first venture outdoors since the onset of her illness. He set down his drink. The day was quite fine, spring at its best, mild and sunny, with no storms queuing up along the horizon. Perhaps he, too, should avail himself of a little stroll.

As he departed the morning room he heard James’s voice coming from his study. When Benson departed the study, nodding silently at Kerry, the first germ of an idea occurred to him.

“Benson, my good man. Might you be able to tell me where Lady Catherine is?”

“In the library, sir. With her friend.”

“And Lord Farley?”

“He’s tending to estate business, sir. All morning, he said.”

“Good.” Kerry glanced at the closed office door. He couldn’t take the suspense. If James wouldn’t willingly face the issue, then he would force him to. “Let the fireworks begin,” he muttered.

The old butler cupped one hand to his ear. “What’s that, sir?”

“Nothing, my good man. Nothing that concerns you.”

James had a letter from his man of business, along with two recent reports on the situations in Paris and Bombay. For once he wasn’t interested. Instead he was studying the crop reports and maintenance records for Farley Park, though not very effectively. He couldn’t seem to concentrate on anything these days. When a soft knock sounded on his study door, he welcomed the distraction. A woman’s knock. Phoebe’s?

He stood in anticipation. “Come in.”

But it was Catherine, Catherine alone, dressed in a pale blue morning gown of gossamer lawn that turned her eyes an impossible shade of blue. To his dismay he recognized a determined glint in those bluebell eyes.

She closed the door with a decisive click, then leaned back against it, all the while smiling at him in a manner he’d never seen before. It was a seductive pose, an I’ve-got-you-now pose, an aren’t-you-glad-to-be-caught? pose. Except that he wasn’t.

What was wrong with him? Back in London he would have been entranced, alert for any possibility of them being alone together. But this wasn’t London and he wasn’t entranced. And he knew why.

Phoebe.

When she didn’t speak, he drummed his fingers on the desktop. “Did you need something?”

She took a deep breath, lifting her pretty bosom against the properly snug fit of her scooped neckline. Pretty bosom; pretty mouth; pretty, confused manner that should have him springing to her aid in the hope of stealing a kiss or maybe more. But all James wanted was to get back to estate business.

“Catherine?” he prompted.

“Oh, James,” she burst out. “How much longer are you going to punish me? Must I grovel and beg your forgiveness? Is that what you require of me?”

Taken aback, James watched with increasing unease as two crystalline tears welled in her unblinking eyes, then spilled with magnificently restrained emotion onto her cheeks.

“Please. Sit.” He indicated a chair, but she sank gracefully onto the leather divan. After hovering a moment, he came around his desk to sit beside her. He handed her a handkerchief which she took. But she didn’t dab at her face. Instead she turned a heartbroken expression up to him.

“I know I’m behaving like a goose, interrupting you at your books, which I know men detest. Very likely I shouldn’t have come to Farley Park at all. But somehow I seem unable to prevent myself from behaving the fool over you.”

All James wanted was for this problem to go away. But it wouldn’t. So he said, “You’re not making a fool of yourself, Catherine. It’s me. I should have addressed the purpose of your visit days ago.”

She sniffled daintily and looked down at the handkerchief she clutched. “I suppose I shouldn’t have made this journey to Yorkshire. But when Kerry didn’t send word from you not to come, I took it as an optimistic sign.”

“It’s all right. I’m glad you came.”

“It’s just that matters were so awkward in town, with all the gossip and everyone counseling me. This way. That way.”

“That was my fault,” James said. “All of it was my fault.”

“But I shouldn’t have listened to them. Not to Papa nor to anyone else.”

Papa. Lord Basingstoke. “Have you come here over your father’s objections?” It shouldn’t matter, but at that moment her father’s opinion was vital to James. He might not be overwhelmed with desire for Catherine. But her father’s good will was key to the advancement of his political career or the death of it.

She dabbed her cheeks, for the two tears had run their course down to her delicate jawline. “Papa was not at all pleased by your…your situation. However, once his initial anger was exhausted, he reassured me that, could you and I mend our rift, he would not stand in our way.”

Mend their rift. The words made it sound so easy, as if James’s children were simply a minor difference of opinion which could be discussed and reasoned away. “What of my three daughters? Will he accept them? Will you?”

Catherine blinked her damp lashes and gave him a brave smile. “Of course we will. He and I spoke about it and—” She hesitated, and a soft blush colored her pearlescent cheeks. “He admitted to a fling or two in his own youth.”

Somehow James couldn’t picture the stout, red-faced Lord Basingstoke ever having a fling. Nor of ever being young.